Baseball and Broken Phones
by SamBon
Summary: Arthur and Francis are 13, and are on opposite baseball teams. AU. One-shot. FrUK/UKFr. First story!


Arthur loved playing baseball. His brothers would practice with him when he was little and still learning, but throws of the ball from his brothers were often a little too hard, a little too rough, a little too many times hitting him in the face with the ball (he had a glorious bump in his nose as proof of his broken nose from Williams strong throwing arm to prove it). In his honest opinion, it only made him better. Arthur enjoyed knowing all this pain was from a sport that he adored. And eventually, his reflexes had caught up to his brothers roughness with a ball, and he exceeded at catching fast balls for someone his age (his aunts and uncles had gushed over this fact at family dinners more than once). He hadn't always loved it, though. When he first moved to America from England he wasn't fond of it. Quite frankly, he thought it was ridiculous. However, after attending one of Alfred's games, he took an interest, and Alfred had brought it upon himself to be Arthur's personal baseball wingman and Arthur realized he was at 'no return' point. Reluctant at first to all the rules, he got used to it, and Arthur even began to find himself getting hyper before games, excited to see his teammates, excited to run the bases, excited about _baseball_.

He loved the adrenaline rushes he got from hitting a ball that flew directly threw infield, it added to his pride. And right now, he felt his pride get a little bigger when he saw the ball, that _he _hit, start fast and hard as it flew toward infield. He began his run toward 1st base. But now, he had stopped in his tracks when he heard the umpire—in that awful, awful mocking voice, no less—shout, at what was surely the top of his lungs, "OUT!" His eyes surveyed the field quickly, and his gaze settled upon a boy, no more than a half inch taller than him, holding a glove, no doubt with the ball safely secured in said glove, against his chest. The back of his jersey had a large '02' under a last name in all capitals that had very clearly read 'BONNEFOY'. He had shoulder-length blonde hair and dark blue eyes and wore had a somewhat confused look on his face. Arthur bitterly walked back to the benches, staring Bonnefoy down with a glare that could kill a man (Bonnefoy had looked a mixture between confused and scared at said glare and Arthur silently patted himself on the back for that). All the rest of the team had manged to go onto plate before the third out was called and the inning was over. A new one started but it seem like years until Bonnefoy was in the field again.

Except this time Bonnefoy didn't return to his position on shortstop. Rather, he was at the pitchers plate, nonchalantly dusting the plate off with his cleats, tossing the ball in and out of his glove, and Arthur had suddenly remembered that Bonnefoy's pitcher had already pitched five innings and they were forced to pick a new pitcher, who happened to be him. And the best part? Arthur was on deck. Oh, this was great; Bonnefoy was going to throw his crappy, weak pitch and Arthur was going to pummel the ball and make a home run, and everyone was going to laugh at Bonnefoy's pathetic excuse for a pitch and praise Arthur for how good he was, and then he _might_ be satisfied with his revenge against the stupid kid who caught a dangerously fast ball when he _wasn't supposed to._

Arthur got into hitting position—knees apart, legs bent, elbows angled away from each other, he had taken extra precaution to make sure his position was spot on—and felt his stomach churn. What if he didn't hit the ball? What if Bonnefoy was an amazing pitcher? What if he hit the ball and then someone caught it? Suddenly the bats weight had increased by 50 lbs and the sight of Bonnefoys ocean blue eyes concentrated, staring, inspecting his every flaw (and the list was long, he was sure) made him wish he was anywhere but here. But now Arthur was on the field, and none of that mattered, it was him, the ball, the bat, and 1st base, nothing else mattered, not Bonnefoy, not his team, hitting the ball was the only thing that mattered, and the only thing he cared about.

And so Arthur locked his eyes on the ball, not the hands they were in, and not how Bonnefoy did a windmill over his own his head, and not how Bonnefoy had smacked his glove against his thigh to release it and, and?—_what the hell_? Arthur stared, almost dumbly, as the ball had barely reached him, and already the umpire was yelling, making sure all players heard him clearly-"Illegal pitch!"

To put it simply, he was dumbstruck. Bonnefoy pitched a girl's softball pitch, and they were playing boy's baseball no less. He watched in utter shock as the umpire waddled toward the pitcher's plate. Arthur noticed that Bonnefoy looked just as dumbstruck as him, except a bit more worried. His eyes were wide and one would assume from the look on his face that the umpire just ran over his puppy. The umpire stood next to Bonnefoy and explained quickly how to do a proper pitch, throwing an example in along the way. He handed the ball back to Bonnefoy quickly.

"Do you understand?" the umpire asked.

There was an awkwardly long pause as Bonnefoy just stared at the umpire. "Q-quoi..?" he finally mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

Arthur didn't even get a chance to think about it until the umpire asked what was on everyone's mind- "Do you speak English?"

Another awkward long pause. "N-no... English," was the quick reply and with that Arthur felt his heart drop to his stomach. Had this been any other situation, Arthur might have just swallowed his heart or something, but this was a public situation, with approximately 45 other people staring at Bonnefoy. If second-hand embarrassment existed, Arthur was definitely feeling it.

The coach strutted over around then, and he and the umpire had a mumbled conversation that no one (not even Bonnefoy) heard. After said mumbles were over, the coach put a hand on Bonnefoy's shoulder and pointed toward the benches whispering a "sit out" which apparently Bonnefoy understood judging from the upset look on his face. He stared at his coach for a few seconds with that kicked-puppy look until he eventually trudged toward the bench sitting down.

The rest of the game had passed on a whim until Arthur found himself loading his baseball bag into his mother's car trunk. His mum had a raised a finger when he requested for her to open the car door (she was fighting with her sister over the phone). So, now he found himself leaning against the hot surface of the car, chewing left over sunflower seeds that Alfred had given him. He heard once distant tapping of heels on concrete grow closer and would have ignored it (it wasn't an uncommon sound to his ears) had it not been accompanied by the sound of a woman and a young boy speaking French. He whipped his head around and saw exactly what—who he thought he thought he'd see. Bonnefoy was walking next to a taller woman—his mum, Arthur assumed, and they were talking back and forth in French. He watched as the pair stopped at the car directly next to his. Bonnefoy smiled and waved and Arthur waved back, though he wasn't smiling. He was about to open his mouth to talk until he was interrupted by the sound of something being dropped and an angry gasp. His mother had dropped her phone and was glaring an open mouthed grimace at Bonnefoy's mum.

"You fucking made me drop my phone!" she gasped lividly.

Bonnefoys's mum chuckled nonchalantly and found sudden interest in playing with Bonnefoy's shiny hair. "I didn't make you drop anything, all I did was step on your foot-"

"With your ridiculously sharp heels! You probably messed up my foot!" Arthur's mum practically shouted, her voice laced with threat. "Don't be surprised if you hear from my lawyer!"

Bonnefoy's mum's eyes seemed to widen at the mention of a lawyer and she grabbed her son's shoulders, pulling him next to stomach before pouting. "Now, I'm sure you're not as frivolous as to sue a single mother supporting a child? We just moved here, after all," she made a small smile, but it was painfully forced and it showed.

Arthur's mind was blank and he looked up at his mum, only to see her grimacing at Bonnefoy. "Hey! Isn't that the kid who held up the game because he couldn't speak English! Did you seriously bring someone who can't speak English to America!"

The French women gasped, covering her son's ears dramatically. "Francis," so that was his name? "Couldn't help it! How can you be so cruel to a child!"

They bickered on for God knows how long until he met Francis' gaze. Francis smiled and walked a step closer to him (their mum's were so engrossed in their fighting they hadn't even noticed). They stood there for a second, quite awkwardly, until Arthur got an idea and pulled his phone from his pocket. Francis watched curiously as Arthur opened the Google translate app, he put in French to English and handed the phone to Francis. "Write," he explained, and Francis got the point. His thumbs pattered against Arthurs screen before he handed the phone back to Arthur, smiling with curiosity.

Arthur read over the screen quickly

"Hi . Sorry about earlier . We just moved to America and I'm supposed to start English lessons tomorrow . My phone number is 908-578-8923 , you must schedule a meeting with me. Maybe we can be friends ."

Arthur looked back up to Francis and smiled, nodding. He was about to type something to give to him but about Francis' mom grabbed his arm and led him to the other side of the car. "Montez dans la voiture, cette femme est folle!" she shouted, talking more to Arthur's mom than Francis and Arthur could only wave goodbye as they drove away. His mum picked up her phone, shoving it roughly in her purse before sitting down in the car and slamming the door.

Arthur stared at his phone the entire way home, deep in thought.

(5 months from then, Arthur would only then realize what a bastard Francis really was when he truly spoke, and 10 years from then, Arthur would only realize how much he truly loved Francis, when they were 24 and sliding rings on each others fingers, while their mother's were still kicking each others ankles at their son's wedding.)


End file.
